The Edge of Things

Highland meanderings and ramblings with a friend from across the pond.

“I have always longed to be part of the outward life, to be out there at the edge of things, to let the human taint wash away in emptiness and silence as the fox sloughs his smell into the cold unworldliness of water; to return to town a stranger. Wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival.”

— J. A. Baker

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August and September blur past in rapid motion. I move back home, beginning with a three thousand kilometre road trip in my tiny Italian car, packed with all of my belongings, two bikes and a dog — from the Serra da Estrela in Portugal to Berkshire in the south of England. I didn’t feel like sharing much from that moment, since sometimes it’s more preferable to savour the memories and keep the happenings in those pivotal moments to yourself.

I had a week to recover from the journey before setting off for the Bavarian Alps for my next video shoot, and as is so often my way of overcommitting, I then set off to the Scottish Highlands for a few days of exploring with a good friend from Colorado — Tucker Farris, who was indirectly stopping-over from eastern Europe on his way back to the States. This is the story of that brief but awe-inspiring time at the wild edge of the British Isles.

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It’s an attractive notion to feel drawn the faraway and unfamiliar places. Perhaps it’s related to the human pitfall of “the grass is always greener” — the idea that somewhere over the horizon, you will find everything you desire, life will be effortless and easy, where the sun always shines. What I’ve learnt since being further south is that the grass can never maintain its green vibrancy if the sun is always shining. In fact, after prolonged periods of intense heat and light, it can begin to feel just as punishing in its bleakness as the winter that never seems to end. The polarity becomes so extreme that the opposites closely meet each other, sharing more similarities than differences, as is so often the way.

During my homebound road trip, I took some time to consider how well acquainted I am with my homeland. The truthful answer is that I am much more familiar with western Europe than I am with my place of origin. Not to say that this a bad thing by any means, but it provides a new basis for exploration and consideration, given my decision to migrate north for the time being.

On my return, I begin to study the map of Great Britain. I run my fingers over places I have been: Cornwall — the mighty south-west, where I studied for three years and spent countless hours cycling over steep hills and through narrow valleys, running wild and free along the coastal paths. Wales — the origin country of my family name, my second most explored nation on this island, where I was consistently drawn to the mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia) and the Bannau Brycheiniog (Brecon Becons). Scotland — aside from the few days that I spent discovering the Cairngorms a few years ago, is somewhere that I am completely unfamiliar with. Given its distance from where I was born, it makes sense why it was often complicated to plan a trip up there, but now the opportunity was finally presented.

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I can’t deny it, the recent slurry of movements have began to wear on my spirit. I’m fairly efficient with packing now, but I’m tired of it. Rarely was there a moment in my travels that a decision was made purely out of a leisurely desire to explore somewhere new. The motive for moving was often a financial or lifestyle-related decision — the opportunity to go elsewhere to make a bit more cash, the desire to leave a current place due to certain difficulties or challenges, or purely because there was only a temporary place to stay. This was a big reason for my decision to come back to the UK: to retain some stability and take the necessary steps for the long-term. For once, I’m taking this trip out of nothing more than the desire to explore somewhere with a good friend. It is most likely the final chance I will get for a while, so I plan on making the most of it.

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The drive is punishing in my little old car. Seven hundred kilometres directly north, only a few hundred from traversing the entire length of the mainland. As I cross the border, the weather is typically Atlantic, where all four seasons seem to be able to make an appearance within the same day. Sun, rain, hail, cloud, sun. When the light breaks through the clouds, it does so with a biblical majesty, illuminating everything in a warm glow, exacerbated by the recent downpour. Something about this weather pattern feels homely to me, familiar. I’ve always stuck close to the Atlantic ocean wherever I have been. When the autumnal storms come, it feels like welcoming an old friend who is particularly loud and boisterous with his presence.

I pick Tucker up from Glasgow airport and we make our way north to Loch Lomond. Our original plan was to wild camp in the highlands, but with the weather forecast signalling near-constant rain, I couldn’t handle the though of sleeping in a wet tent again this year. I found a camping pod to rent for a few nights, heating and all. It felt like luxury after my recent road trip through Europe. If I’m gonna sell-out on my tramping approach to travel, this was the way to do it.

Despite our transatlantic distance, we have been in touch as friends for a couple of years now. As a naturally introverted person, I’ve always preferred quality over quantity when it comes to friendships. Those that stand the test of time are the ones that exist above time. What I mean by that is, you might not communicate or see each other for a while, but when you do, it’s as if you are simply picking up from where you left off — whether that is a few weeks or a few years.

Mr Farris, or Dr. Raven as he is sometimes known by his radio presenter alias, is a unique character. Born and raised in the mountains of Colorado, he is both an academic professor and a grease monkey, someone who can converse effortlessly about existential philosophy and also bestow a wealth of mechanical wisdom when required, which has been needed on many occasions for my old vehicles and amateur level of knowledge. Our conversations often mix between these two subjects, usually resulting in my realisation that there is much more to car mechanics than I will realistically ever understand.

In a rare moment when the rain appears to take a break, we decide to venture out in search of woodland. We drive across windswept farmland, carved by the northerly gales and defined by it’s openness and lack of trees. In the distance, the rolling fells drift in and out of the misty haze, alluring and mysterious. After a meandering thirty minute journey through the countryside, we arrive at the start point for a walk to Loch Ard. Surrounded by old growth Caledonian forest, the atmosphere is similar to that of an imagined childhood fairytale, made manifest. Moss covers the undergrowth with a green vibrancy, creeping over the floor and ascending upwards, harnessing that perfect balance between dampness and shade.

Walking onwards, we come across a wooden footbridge across a small river, stained with a reddish-brown hue that so often characterises these iron-rich regions. Small patters of rain land on the surface of the water, creating perfectly circular ripples that emanate outwards, joining each other in geometric pattern. I watch as the flow of water drifts beneath us, and am reminded of a favourite quote by A. A. Milne, the author of Winnie the Pooh:

“Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.”

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Though the window of adventure is brief, we decide to take a trip along the Loch to visit the mountain of Ben Lomond (Beinn Laomainn) — beacon mountain, as the name translates to from Gaelic. I’ve always been fascinated by the Celtic languages, the tongue of our ancestors, and admired the countries that have maintained their connections despite centuries of invasion and attempted colonisation. Any place or people that resist the imperialistic attitude of expansion and assimilation is one that I respect deeply.

We are greeted for once with a clear and sunny day, no doubt amplified by the strong northerly winds that cut through layers of clothing like icy daggers. The forecast bodes well, but anyone familiar with such a climate will know not to trust it with full confidence.

Climbing up the granite steps that lead towards Ben Lomond, Tucker and I decide to temporarily part ways. He decided to take the lakeside route and I head upwards, with Lupa as company. You can take the dog out the mountain, but you can’t take the mountain out of the dog. It goes without saying that this statement applies to both of us.

Ben Lomond is one of those peaks that can be seen from the very beginning, which is both appealing since it gives something to aim for, but also serves as a reminder of how far you still have left to go. It’s not a particularly big mountain when compared to Alpine peaks, but at 974m, it certainly isn’t small either. I often find that the height is rarely the main factor of difficulty in this sort of terrain — it is usually the weather, unpredictable, windy, wet. Low visibility often causes disorientation to novice hikers. It seemed as though we would be given a smooth journey, but the elements had different plans.

Around halfway up, the skies began to cloud over. The wind begins to pick up. The higher we go, the worse it gets. Just as we are beginning to climb the main ridge, the rain begins to fall heavily and I move hastily to put on a waterproof rain jacket. Gusts and gales begin to blow, pushing me off balance. What begins as average rainfall increases into torrential downpour, and as we ascend, it turns into painful hailstones. My face and legs burn from the cold and the impact of the hail. It only incentivises me to move faster, being clad in shorts as I am, feeling extremely vulnerable to this micro-storm. Lupa’s ears pull back, he is not used to this kind of weather. We push onwards with intensity, with visibility now significantly reduced.

Behind us, the trail unravels into the distance, seemingly infinite, rolling ever downwards. The lower landscape blanketed with a dramatic display of clouds and light, dancing over fells and lochs. We’ve come a long way, but there is still a long way to go.

Cresting the summit, I don't wish to hang around long. My face is numb with cold, but Loch Lomond below is finally revealed in all of its panoramic glory. In the distance, the combined cloud cover and penetrating sunshine creates a silver sheen over the lake. Patches of bright light break through the cloud. The scene is otherworldly, seemingly beyond visual comprehension. The wind is whipping at us and the skies begin to open, exposing a deep blue colour that exists in stark contrast to what we had just emerged from.

The journey down is nothing short of euphoria — derived purely from the adversity of the last few kilometres. It’s the unique contrast between pain and pleasure, that any avid outdoorsman will relate to. It always keeps us coming back for more, to find that balance on the razor’s edge. As we descend, the wind is blocked by a smaller peak, and the sunshine has finally broken through in full glory, helping to restore blood flow to my frozen fingers. Lupa bounces elegantly from rock to rock. His ears return to their normal position, flapping happily with each step. No doubt he is as pleased to emerge from the clouds as I am.

Upon returning to our rendezvous location, I find Tucker standing reflectively over the lake, poised between the pine trees like a true Colorado-born mountain man. He shows me a stick that he has been carving, offering it as a gift which I surely would have taken if it weren’t for my limited Fiat Panda capacity. He also offers a collection of acorns that I store in my “miscellaneous items” pouch, for some undetermined use in the future. Our journey back to base camp is characterised by much of what brought us together in the first place — an appreciation for wildness, mountains, forests, lakes. Meandering roads, open space, time for reflection and interpretation.

It is the inexplicable need to live in the liminal space — “the edge of things” as J.A Baker would say. Neither here nor there, finding ourselves suspended between the past and the future, yet always moving forward, never linear, to some unknown horizon.

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